


The Bee & Bonnet

by belovedmuerto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Beer, M/M, Tattoos, beer and tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:36:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John returns home from Afghanistan to the family brewpub, which he now has to save from closing after his sister has failed utterly at taking care of it. He hires on Sherlock Holmes to be his new brewer. And gives him the extra bedroom in his flat.</p><p>He hasn't decided if this was the smartest thing he ever did, or the opposite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Problem of Money

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a fanart by Coey Kuhn and an off-hand comment by Moony. This is just for fun, folks. Don't look for much in the way of angst. Or plot. But hopefully you'll enjoy it.
> 
> I'm aiming to post once a week. I'm not sure yet how many chapters there are going to be, but I'm guessing between 12 and 15? I've never posted a fic this way before; hopefully it'll work out.

“I’m so sorry, Johnny,” Harry sobs. She’s sat on the the cold tiled floor of the pub’s kitchen. She is absolutely rat-arsed. 

He is stood over her, arms crossed, angry and disappointed and hurt and worried. Sarah and Clara are both stood in the doorway. They wear matching looks of distress.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry repeats, distraught.

“Harry, I can’t even look at you right now.” It hurts him, to see her like this, brought low, bringing him low with her. But he’s too angry to be able to comfort her. Too angry, too hurt. “Go sleep it the fuck off. I’ll--” he sighs. “Fuck, I’ll deal with it. I’ll fix this.”

“Do you think you can?” she asks as she climbs slowly, unsteadily to her feet with a hopeful expression on her tear-streaked face. John has always been the one to fix things, she has always been the one who fucks them up in the first place. Clara rushes around him to help her stay upright.

John only growls and stalks out of the kitchen, brushing past Sarah without so much as a glance.

\--

John Watson is not having the best year of his life. He’s been invalided home from Afghanistan; no longer a soldier, no longer useful to the RAMC, no longer wanted, no longer needed. He can’t practice medicine anymore--a surgeon with a hand tremor is good for nothing. And then he finds out his sister has all but run the family brewpub into the ground. Their legacy. It takes almost his entire savings just to keep the bank from foreclosing.

So, yeah. Not the best year ever.

\--

He’s wiping down the bar (he’s always wiping down the bar) when the tall drink of gorgeous waltzes in like he owns the place. He looks far too posh for the Bee & Bonnet, in a swirling, dramatic greatcoat and a scarf that looks soft as a cloud even from across the room, crowned by a dark mop of curls and unusual, pale almond eyes.

Those eyes sweep through the whole mostly empty bar in seconds, alighting on John only momentarily; they’re cool and appraising. And gorgeous, John doesn’t mind admitting to himself. Like the rest of him, posh and untouchable as he clearly is. John is dismissed as quickly as he is noticed, and the man crosses the practically empty room and sits down next to Mike, clapping him on the back and smiling, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.

John ambles over to the pair. It wouldn’t do to look too eager, but Mike is the only person sat at the bar at the moment, so he can’t appear oblivious either. Mike’s almost through his first pint, munching through the sandwich and crisps he’d ordered to go with it, so John nods at him. “Another, mate?”

“Ta,” Mike replies. 

John looks to Mike’s ridiculously posh friend. “Anything for you?”

“I’ll have a cranberry juice.” And his voice matches the rest of him: gorgeous and almost too posh to function.

John merely nods and goes to pull the pint and dig the cranberry juice out of the fridge. 

When he returns with the drinks, the posh man is speaking again. 

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? Mine’s dead.”

Mike pulls his mobile out of his jacket pocket. “Sorry, mine’s dead too.”

John grabs his mobile off the counter and holds it out. “Here, use mine.” 

He doesn’t generally offer customers use of his mobile; he doesn’t know what makes this man different, other than the fairly obvious fact he doesn’t need to steal John’s mobile, as his is a much newer and more expensive model. And is clearly totally dead. But something does make him different, something John can’t even consciously name.

“Thanks,” the man murmurs, taking the mobile from John. Their fingertips brush together, and the man gives him another appraising look. John leans against the bar, calm under his scrutiny. Posh and intimidating the man might be, but he’s nothing compared to insurgents with large guns and nothing to lose, or to open-heart surgery in a field hospital.

The other man looks down, fingers flying over the keys of John’s mobile. He hands it back after sending a text. John pockets it. They nod at each other. John turns to grab his rag and continue wiping down the counter when the man speaks again.

“You need a brewer.”

John turns a cocked brow on him, rag forgotten in his hand. “I’m sorry?”

“You need a brewer. I need work. I think this will do quite nicely.”

“I’m sorry?” John looks from him to Mike--who’s grinning like the Mad Hatter--and back to this strange man.

The stranger rolls his eyes. “You heard me. Do you want to discuss the terms of my employment or not?”

John blinks. Well, it’s true, he does need help. He desperately needs help. He has no idea how this man knows that, though. He hasn’t even decided if he’s going to try to find help or attempt to muddle through without it. He hasn’t even really given it much thought, because it’s huge and impossible and it terrifies him. He can’t lose this place, it’s his whole life. All of his best memories of his parents are in this place. It’s certainly not as though he has the funds to actually pay someone right now. If only his sister--he’s not going to think about her now; thinking about Harry just makes him want to hit things.

“I can’t right now,” he manages to say, when he’s recovered use of his voice. “Uh, stop back around fiveish, I’ll be free then.”

The man nods and sticks his hand out. “Sherlock Holmes. Until this evening, Doctor.”

John shakes his hand by sheer instinct, baffled beyond the telling of it. The man--Sherlock Holmes--nods at Mike and says a quick “Good afternoon, Mike,” and sweeps back out of the bar.

John looks at Mike, who is still smiling, and shaking his head a bit. “Yeah. He’s always like that.”

\--

John quizzes Mike relentlessly, once Sherlock Holmes is gone. 

“Did you tell him about me? About the bar? About how much trouble I’m in?”

“Not a word,” Mike denies, sincerity seeping from every pore.

What John finds out doesn’t precisely make him excited to ‘interview’ the man later. He sounds like a bit of a loose cannon. Fascinating, but insane. John pretends that this doesn’t excite him, doesn’t remind him a bit of being in the Army. Pretends it doesn’t send a familiar thrill running down his spine.

Mike, it turns out, knows him from Barts, where both he and John had gone to school, where Mike now teaches. Mr Holmes had shown up about a month ago and commandeered a lab, terrorizing students, patients and faculty alike. He flirted shamelessly with the female techs--and not a few of the men as well--as long as it took to get him what he needed. He drops the charm as quickly as he picks it up.

Last week, he’d set fire to a lab.

Mike is the only person he seems to have any time for outside of manipulation.

He’s seen as something of a psychopath, although a possibly somewhat harmless one. Or rather, one who hasn’t snapped and started killing people. Yet.

Everyone wants him gone. 

And Mike seems to have been the one stuck with finding a way to get him gone. 

“And this is your solution?” John asks. “Fob him off on me?”

Mike shrugs. “I thought you’d like him.”

John frowns. He cannot deny that he’s intrigued.


	2. A Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John negotiate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far, I'm ahead! Go me. Hopefully I can keep up.
> 
> Thanks again to Moony for taking a run-through on this.

Sherlock returns precisely on time; John is going over things with Sally and Sarah before he takes off for the night. He smiles and waves at Sherlock, holds up a finger asking him to wait just a moment.

When he’s finished with the ladies, he gives both of them a quick hug; they’ve stuck around, they’ve both been working at the pub for ages, he feels like they’re family, and beckons his guest--possible brewer?--over.

“Mr. Holmes,” John greets him, as they shake hands again.

“Sherlock, please.”

“John, then. Come on back, we’ll go upstairs. Have you eaten?”

Sherlock shakes his head. As John leads them towards the kitchen, he looks around; John presumes he’s curious about the building. John stops at a simple door with a bee painted on, the word “private” painted in flowering hand underneath, and fishes a key out of his pocket. Sherlock’s lips quirk in a tiny, unconscious smile at the image, and he follows John upstairs.

The flat is cozy and cluttered; the stairs open onto the large lounge, with the kitchen to the side and the first bedroom down the hall. There’s a second one upstairs, although most of the second floor is part of the inn next door now. There’s a pass through up there that Mrs Hudson uses more than anyone else, though she and John both have keys. 

Sherlock wanders into the middle of the lounge and sweeps a quick, appraising look over the place. He turns with a vaguely expectant air to look at John.  
John smiles at him. “Tea? Something to eat?”

“Just tea for me, please.” Sherlock smiles at him, but something about it strikes John as just slightly off, as not quite sincere. It’s as though he’s spent years studying smiles, knows how they should look and what they are supposed to mean, yet has never consciously given one out of genuine amusement, or gratitude, or any of the other reasons that people have for smiling.

“Mind if I grab a bite? I haven’t eaten since this morning, I’m famished.”

“Not at all.”

John nods and leaves Sherlock to his perusal to make tea and a sandwich for himself.

\--

He’s a little wary of this whole situation. Fascinated, sure, but a bit wary. Mike’s words from earlier stick with him.

But there’s something there, too. He’s not comfortable giving it a name beyond fascination, though. Not yet.

“Are you a brewer, then?” he asks.

“Well, no,” Sherlock replies. He doesn’t look away, he doesn’t seem at all worried about this tiny, inconsequential, all-important fact.

“Then why should I hire you?”

“Because you need me.” He sits back and sips the tea John made.

They’re sat across from each other in the lounge, in the two armchairs. John snorts at Sherlock’s bold statement, his confidence. Snorts, but doesn’t dismiss him out of hand. Like he should.

He can’t deny that it’s true, however.

“All right. Maybe I do,” he admits with a sigh.

“You’re wary,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t seem offended by this, or even particularly surprised. It’s merely a statement of fact.

“Yes.”

Sherlock looks at him, long enough that John begins to feel a touch uncomfortable. He feels scrutinized, like he’s being picked apart from the inside out. He breaks it with, “I looked you up on the internet, at lunch.”

“Oh?”

“You destroyed an entire vintage of champagne?”

Sherlock scowls, and John smiles to soften the barb, and continues, “Well, at least you understand fermentation.”

His scowl melts into a smile; a genuine smile.

\--

“How did you know I’m a doctor?” John asks, as he’s taking his plate into the kitchen to put it in the sink.

Sherlock smiles at him again, a smile of unholy glee, and John feels himself responding with a smile of his own.

“Not just a doctor, an army doctor.”

“Did Mike tell you about me?”

“Not a word.”

“Then how did you know?”

“I didn’t know, I observed.”

“You observed?”

“You’re limp is bad when you walk, did you know that? But you stand as though the leg doesn’t bother you.”

John looks down at his cane.

“Was it Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John gapes. “How--?”

And Sherlock explains it to him, rattling off things about him that most people don’t know, wouldn’t know unless they’d known him for years, things they couldn’t know unless he had told them himself. The only thing he admits to having been told by Mike is that Mike’s been a regular at the bar for years; it doesn’t make sense that he’d be going to _this_ bar from the time he was in med school, it’s too out of the way, most of the students stick much closer to Barts, why here? Because he had a mate whose family owned the place.

It goes on, and John doesn’t miss how Sherlock watches him, proud and slightly nervous.

“That was amazing,” John breathes, when he’s finished, and Sherlock looks sharply at him.

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

“It varies. Everything from ‘piss off’ to ‘fuck you’.”

John snorts.

\--

“All right, say I’m willing to give you a shot at this. That’s all well and fine, but I can’t afford to pay you right now. I can barely manage to pay the people I’ve already got.”

Sherlock gives him another appraising look. “Twenty percent.”

John snorts. “Pull the other one, mate. Eight.”

Sherlock makes a disbelieving face. “Fifteen.”

“Nine.” John cannot believe he’s negotiating to give this man a piece of his brewpub in exchange for--what? The possibility that he’ll blow the place up? But he is, and he’s feeling distinctly excited and positive about it as well.

Sherlock sighs. “Ten. And the second bedroom.”

“How did you--Nevermind. All right. Ten percent.” John reaches out to shake on it.

Sherlock hesitates. “And the freedom to experiment with the brewing.”

“As long as you make the regular stuff too, I’ll be interested to see what you come up with.”

Sherlock takes his hand and shakes. John feels a thrill run up his arm at the contact. 

“Deal.”


	3. Big Brother is Watching You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets a mysterious, menacing stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Moony for reading this over for me.

John’s just finishing up counting the till when the leggy brunette walks in. He doesn’t look up at first, calling out, “Sorry, we’re--”

That’s when he sees her.

“--closed,” he finishes, voice barely audible.

She smirks down at her Blackberry, typing away a mile a minute, not even sparing him a glance. Lifting the phone to her ear she pauses, then, “Sir? _Il est ici._ ”

John gapes at her.

“ _Oui._ ” She glances, briefly, over at John now, who has managed to scrounge together a scowl and crossed arms.

“ _Non._ ”

John’s brows climb up his forehead.

“ _Oui, d’accord. Oui._ ” She takes the phone from her ear and goes back to tapping away at it. In all this time, she’s looked at John precisely once.

“I’m sorry--” John begins.

“Just a moment,” she interrupts him. She has a thick French accent. It, like everything else about her, is gorgeous. John feels like the naughty school-boy, sent to the headmistress’s office, forced to wait and contemplate all the bad things he’s done. It pisses him off. More than that, it feels a bit dangerous, and that sends a thrill up his spine, sets his heart to racing, his mind sharpens; he settles into parade rest, waiting, excited at the possibilities. Which only pisses him off more.

Just a moment later, whilst the only sound in the pub is that of the young woman tapping away at her Blackberry, alongside the roar of blood in John’s ears, the door swings open again--John sincerely regrets not locking it after the last of the regulars had left a few minutes before closing--and a tall, slender man walks in. He’s wearing a three-piece suit and carrying an umbrella over one arm. His expression is one of quiet, upper-class disdain, and he looks infinitely out of place in John’s little brewpub.

John stands behind the bar, arms crossed, scowling at him. What the hell is this? If he’s about to be robbed a) he’s going to pitch a fit and probably hit someone; and b) it’s the weirdest robbery ever.

“Ah, Doctor Watson,” the man begins, looking around. His expression doesn’t change, but somehow he conveys the notion quite clearly that he is not at all impressed by the pub.

“Can I help you?” John says, anger masking his worry.

“What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?” the man asks, without preamble.

“Uh, I don’t have one. I just met him... last week.”

“And suddenly he’s moved in with you and you’re... brewing beer together. What is Sherlock to you, Doctor Watson?” The man ambles across the room, umbrella swinging, expression bland, eyes laser focused on John.

John shrugs. “I could be wrong, but I think that’s none of your business.”

“It could be,” he menaces.

John chuckles. “It really couldn’t.”

The man, tall and slightly sinister, with his ginger hair and gorgeous sidekick, raises one brow at John. “I’m willing to offer you a... meaningful sum of money for this... establishment, along with a generous yearly salary, use of the flat above, full autonomy in... brewing--”

“Who are you to Sherlock Holmes?” John interrupts.

“A,” and the man pauses to consider, “friend.”

“A friend?”

“An enemy, I imagine he would say.”

“You seem awfully curious about him, for an enemy.”

“Keep one’s friends close, Doctor Watson,” he says.

John snorts, and returns to the original offer. “In exchange for what?” 

“In exchange for information about Sherlock Holmes,” he replies, as if this should be obvious. He hadn’t even blinked at John’s abruptness. “Nothing untoward, nothing that would make you uncomfortable, I can assure you.”

“No.”

“I haven’t mentioned a figure.”

“Don’t bother.”

The man draws himself up and considers John. He glances around the pub before settling his heavy gaze back on John. “You’re very loyal, very quickly.”

“No I’m not, I’m just not interested in selling out my legacy. Are we done here?”

He settles back, considering John again. “You tell me.”

John nods. “Right. I need to close up my pub; if you’d be so kind?” He indicates the door with a tilt of his head. 

“Good evening, Doctor Watson. Do consider my offer.”

“Really don’t need to, mate.”

The mysterious man and his equally mysterious sidekick disappear from the pub, silent and eerie.

John finishes closing down for the night in short, sharp moves; slammed doors, slammed glassware, slammed safe. He stomps upstairs to the flat much later than he’d normally be, to find his erstwhile new flatmate stretched out on the sofa.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asks, not even bothering to open his eyes and look at John.

“Just met a friend of yours,” John says from the kitchen, where he’s slamming about, trying to decide if it’s too late for tea or not. (It is, and he knows it is, but he could do with something a bit soothing right now.)

“A friend?” Sherlock sounds infinitely surprised. He hasn’t mentioned any friends to John in the week they’ve been flatmates. All he’s said is some rubbish about not talking for days on end (he seems never to stop) and playing the violin when he’s thinking (which thus far has been at eight p.m. the night he moved in and at four a.m. that very morning). The only other person John has seen him readily interact with thus far is Mike Stamford. 

But it’s only been a week, so that’s not too unusual, right?

“An enemy,” John amends.

“Oh.” Sherlock shrugs. “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

John gives up on the idea of tea and gets a beer from the fridge. “He tried to buy my pub, Sherlock!”

“Our pub,” Sherlock corrects him quietly.

John growls, throwing the cap from his beer as hard as he can across the lounge and stomping over to his chair. Sherlock watches him slump in the armchair and take a swig of his beer, followed by a deep breath. The tension starts to go out of him. Sherlock relaxes, marginally.

“Telly?” he offers. 

John grunts in reply. After a moment, he sighs, and adds, “Yeah. Yeah, that’ll be good. Not going to be able to sleep for a bit, after that nonsense.” He gets up to find the remote and turn on the television.

His phone beeps while he’s searching behind Sherlock in the sofa cushions. Sherlock is, of course, motionless, not protesting that John is manhandling him in order to find the remote, but also making no moves to actually get off the couch and make John’s life easier.

John has already discovered that this is a thing that Sherlock does. Somehow, he doesn’t find himself minding. Exasperated, sure, but he doesn’t truly mind.

Once he’s retrieved the remote, from somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock’s hip, he pulls his mobile out of his pocket. He’s received a text message from an unknown number.

“Delete that,” Sherlock says, suddenly, “don’t read it.” There is something akin to a note of pleading in his voice.

Too late, though, John has already opened the text message. “‘Tell Sherlock big brother is watching.’ Christ, Sherlock, _that was your brother_?! There’s two of you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week: John's Tattoos. XD


	4. John's Tattoos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's tattoos. Pretty self-explanatory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one hasn't been beta'd, so let me know if there's anything wrong with it. I've looked over it and tweaked it so many times at this point, there could be a random half-sentence in there and I probably wouldn't even notice.

John’s tattoos are many and varied (though thematic), but they are rarely the first thing anyone notices about him. He doesn’t share them with the world, he doesn’t think he should have to. He doesn’t call attention to them, and most people are rather too caught up in their own lives to notice the ink in John’s skin even when it is on display.

He’s not casual about them. They are more than simply art to him, or body modifications. Each and everyone one has a meaning to him, and most of them have meaning that he doesn’t care to explicate to a casual viewer. So, he doesn’t share them easily or readily, just he doesn’t share himself easily or readily.

Not like he used to.

His artist laments that he never shows off her work, but as she is one of the few people he does tell his meanings to, she understands. She keeps pictures though, that she occasionally shows other clients, other people like John, who wear their heart and their mind and their soul on their skin. They understand, even though they don’t see this man’s face, only see the art on his body.

His right arm is nearly covered now, and the theme there is consistent, if not the style. He wears his heart on this arm, and his heart has always belonged to the Bee & Bonnet. Sometimes, if you’re lucky and are sat in the pub very late, you’ll see John roll up his sleeves to wipe down the bar and all the tables, and you’ll see the lower part of his sleeve; best not to make any mention of it, though, as John will come over embarrassed and flustered, and will roll down those sleeves again. And possibly kick you out of the pub, depending on how he feels about you.

At the very least, your tab is liable to be higher than normal, should you do such a thing. Chances are, you won’t argue with him about it if it is.

But the sleeve on his right arm isn’t what he had done first. 

First, he had “hops” and “malt” inked across his knuckles. He was seventeen at the time, and they’re not quite the best work he’s had done--though they’ve been touched up since by far better artists--but he loves them nonetheless. His dad had rolled his eyes and sent him to clean up the empty casks when John showed up with them. His mum had tried to send him to bed without dinner, which had patently not worked.

His mates had all laughed at him that he’d never do anything beyond brewing beer and pulling pints. No, he’d reassured them, that’s not all he would do with his life. Not by a long-shot.

He went on to prove them right.

The sleeve he started next, once he found Lana, once he gained permission from the artist whose work he wanted indelibly inked on his upper arm. She’d been delighted when he had asked her, and equally delighted with the final product. She still does art for the pub, for each and every new brew he comes up with, has done the art for ages; she was friends of old with his mum. 

These days he has to travel clear out to Surrey in order to see Lana, but she’s well worth the time and expense. Those days, she’d been just barely out of her apprenticeship, doing tattoos still on the cheap, building her client book and her portfolio. John is one of her oldest clients. She’d taken a look at what he wanted on his bicep and clapped her hands in glee. For a woman covered in tattoos, she is never what John expected.

No matter. His sleeve is all beer related. Done in traditional tattoo style--except for the first part he had done--which is Lana’s specialty. There are casks, and the hops and malt that he uses to make his beers, and all sorts of beer paraphernalia. Lana had snuck in a tiny rose near his elbow, with a bumblebee on; when he’d protested that it didn’t fit, she’d sat up and smacked him in the back of the head, telling him to deal with it and wasn’t his place called ‘The Bee & Bonnet’ anyway? 

He grows to love the tiny detail in the bee. It ties the lower portion to the piece on his bicep, the personification of his pub, of the Bee and Bonnet.

There’s still a bit of space left, near his wrist. He’s saving it, for now. One way or the other, lose the bar or keep it and bring it back to glory, he’ll fill that spot soon. He even knows what he’s going to put there.

His left arm belongs to the healer in him. (Most of his mates from uni and med school have laughed at him, at various points, upon finding out the doctor has a sleeve full of alcohol related tattoos, that he plans to get more in future, that he has no plans to stop.) On his bicep is the RAMC logo; he had it done the first time he was home on leave. Behind it is the Watson tartan. Lana had adapted both a bit, to fit in with the style of his right arm. She had added in a few red crosses, although he’d protested at the time that he’s a surgeon, not a medic. She’d been right, though, they filled in the piece and helped keep it together. He’s learned to trust her over the years. Around it twists a stethoscope, and underneath it are two crossed scalpels. 

Mike’s seen that one. He’d nodded solemnly at it, then quirked a brow at John and said “Always wanted to be a pirate, then?”

“Shut up, Mike.” But John had been smiling when he’d said it.

On the inside of his bicep is an anatomical heart, bright red. John literally wears his heart on his arm.

More recently, he started on his back. Because it was there, and it was clean, a blank canvas. Across his shoulders now are two sets of constellations. Those he’d had done when he was home, before his last fateful deployment. On the right side, the constellations as they appear above London, above home. And on the left, as they appear above Afghanistan. It’s the same stars, but they’re not viewed the same way. There are constellations he can only name in Pashto, in Dari.

Parts of those stars are twisted now, pulled out of alignment and smeared by the scarring.

He’s started the line-work on a new piece since then, since returning from Afghanistan. Sometimes he feels like the color will only return to his world when there is color in this new piece. It’s a different style for him, and a different style for Lana as well. It’s a phoenix, rising from his knee nearly to his hip, wings outstretched around his thigh as it rises from its own ashes. When it’s finished, it will be magnificent, one of the finest pieces Lana has ever done, he’s sure of it.

She’s never asked him what it means. She doesn’t ask why he wants it on his right leg, but she smiles softly when he tells her what he wants and where, and she smiles proudly when she shows him the line art, and she smiles sadly when he stops in to tell her that he won’t be able to have any work done on it for a while, and why. 

Eventually, he’ll finish it.

\--

“John, I want to see your tattoos,” Sherlock announces, seemingly out of the blue. 

John looks up at him, at the predatory gleam in Sherlock’s eye, and stills his hands at the top button of his shirt. Christ, it’s scary how quickly he’s come to simply listen to Sherlock and do whatever he asks, he’s ready to strip down to nothing and show the man his tattoos at the merest suggestion. And he doesn’t show anyone he isn’t having sex with his tattoos. Most of the time, even then he doesn’t explain them, and he knows that Sherlock will require detailed reasoning for each one.

John puts his hands down, then picks his book back up, returns his gaze to the words on the page. “No, Sherlock.”

“Why not?” Sherlock sounds affronted, and confused. He looks at John from across the room, his brow furrowed.

John smiles at him, just a little bit. “Because you only want to see them to know if you’ve deduced them correctly.”

Sherlock harumphs and flops back on the sofa. 

John puts his bookmark in his book and stands up. “Talk to me again when you want to see them to see them, not just to prove yourself right, Sherlock. All right?”

Sherlock looks at him, surprised, sharp, another sort of curiosity in his gaze now. 

John doesn’t wait for an answer, but leaves the room, heading for his bedroom. He kicks himself the whole way there, letting on like that his feelings for his flatmate. 

Not that he’s not fairly certain Sherlock already knew. 

“All right,” he hears, as he’s about to shut the door to his room.


	5. The Genius at Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John watches Sherlock get down to the business of moving in and setting up.

Sherlock makes a noise of utmost disgust, jumping up from the sofa and snatching the phone from John’s hand, texting furiously. He stalks back and forth across the lounge, all leonine grace and furrowed brows, while John watches with wide eyes.

“So, when you say ‘the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet’,” John starts, slowly, watching Sherlock pace back and forth. He doesn’t know how to finish that statement, how to make it a proper question. He wants to tilt his head to the side and make an inquiring noise. A ‘please explain’ noise. But he’s fairly certain it would make him look too much like an eager-to-please puppy, so he refrains.

Sherlock looks at him like he’s an eager-to-please puppy anyway. “Yes, I mean that. Seriously. He may pretend at being “only” the man who runs the Vernet vineyard, but he only does that when he’s not busy meddling in world affairs.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes of course I’m bloody well serious. He runs large swaths of France, John, and I’m fairly positive he runs a nearly equal part of England as well. And probably South America! Politicians and wine, John! They go hand in hand! In Mycroft’s pocket!”

\----

Sherlock settles into life at The Bee & Bonnet far more quickly than John had anticipated. He spends a few days following John around the pub, taking in everything John does and says, observing how he treats the regulars and the various other customers.

He says hello to people when he’s caught on his own, but otherwise doesn’t make any effort to interact with the customers. John suspects that this is for the best. He hasn’t hired the man to tend bar, after all. People seem taken aback with him whenever he speaks to them even to say hello; John can’t imagine the customers wanting to have a pint and a chat with Sherlock the way they do with Sally or Sarah or even John himself.

Sherlock speaks briefly to each of the other people who work at the pub, and gives them each a quick, appraising look when he does so. John tries to stay out of it, not to notice the reactions to Sherlock, but he doesn’t interfere, and Sherlock mostly keeps his insights to himself. John seems to be the only one who’s amazed by them. John cringes when he catches the surprised and annoyed look Sally gives him after their conversation.

She starts calling him ‘freak’ shortly thereafter, and nothing John says gets her to stop. Sherlock doesn’t even seem to notice, however. Or, rather, John’s pretty certain he notices and it simply doesn’t phase him. He snarks back at Sally as easily as if they’ve known each other their whole lives, but John can detect a hint of animosity there, on both sides, that he hopes he won’t have to do anything about.

John watches him snark at Sally like it’s nothing, like her words don’t hurt in the slightest, and suspects that somewhere deep down, Sherlock is, in fact, hurt by her words. But it seems that he expects it. He expects to be called a freak.

\----

Sherlock sort of takes over the flat, but somehow it feels all the more like home that way. There is chemistry equipment strewn all over the kitchen, in the dish rack, in the cupboards. 

There are books absolutely _everywhere_. Including in the bathroom, a thick tome _written in German_ on... well, John has no idea, does he, because it’s _written in German_ , for christ’s sakes. He doesn’t know where they all come from or how Sherlock got them to the flat, because they just appear. It’s ridiculous. He never even seemed to move in. His stuff just started migrating around the flat of its own accord. By magic, or something.

John gripes at him to clean up after himself, and Sherlock grumbles back and only grudgingly moves his dirty dishes about. John usually ends up washing them. He doesn’t really mind, somehow. Life with Sherlock is never dull. There’s always laughter, and there is usually the threat of something about to blow up. In the kitchen. Near his food.

Sherlock’s ridiculous greatcoat takes up residence over every surface in the flat except for the hook it should be hung from, or even hung up in his wardrobe. John grows accustomed to simply moving it about when he wants to sit down, instead of bothering to say anything to Sherlock about it. He likes the way it smells. 

Sherlock listens to him; he does. John can tell, somehow. Sherlock pays attention to him in ways that he doesn’t pay attention to anyone else. It makes John feel warm and incredibly special, like there’s something different about him, something fascinating.

Which he knows isn’t true. He’s just a busted, broken man, whose only real talent seems to be in making beer. 

Not that he’s an awful doctor, he was good at that, he loves being a doctor, but it’s not what he’s doing with his life anymore, is it? He was invalided out. He was made redundant. He’s not useful to his country anymore, so he might as well try to be useful to society, to social lubrication.

But Sherlock makes him feel like he’s useful to _Sherlock_ , and that makes him glow. And no matter how many times he tells himself it’s ridiculous, he can’t quite quell the feeling.

\----

John never sees Sherlock doing anything in preparation for the job he’s supposed to be doing. He’s given Sherlock all the recipes for the different beers, as well as the notes and diaries about brewing that his grandfather had made. He entreated Sherlock not to trust to Wikipedia for answers--Sherlock had merely snorted in reply--and even recommended a few books.

Sherlock appears to ignore him entirely.

But after he’s all moved in and seems to have settled, he starts showing up downstairs in the back where the brewing is done. He spends several days rummaging about, going through the stock, rearranging things--though John isn’t able to figure out how he’s rearranging--and generally making a ruckus.

Shortly thereafter, he starts brewing.

John is, in a word, impressed.


	6. Genius at Work, Pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock settles in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to Moony for a quick beta. <3

Sherlock shuffles down the stairs in search of tea and possibly a bite to eat. John gives him pained looks when he doesn’t at least make a show of eating sometimes. He stops at the bottom of the stairs when he hears Mrs. Hudson talking, presumably to John. He may be blatantly eavesdropping, but--well, he doesn’t have an excuse. He’s just doing it. John will give him one of those long-suffering looks he has and Mrs. Hudson will admonish him if they find out, but he can’t seem to move forward or even make any sound to announce his presence.

“I heard your young man moving about upstairs when I came through, dear. Did you two have a little domestic, then? Did you make him sleep alone?”

John sounds exasperated, but not offended, when he replies, “Mrs. Hudson, he’s not--”

“Oh, psh, dear. Don’t worry about me, I’m no spring chicken. You young people today, thinking you invented homosexuality. In my day--”

“Oh my god, Mrs. Hudson!” John sounds properly scandalized, and Mrs. Hudson laughs. She loves to tease John; Sherlock noticed this within moments of meeting her. She’s started gently teasing Sherlock as well, something that makes him feel warm inside. He doesn’t analyze the feeling; he doesn’t want to. 

“How’s my girl looking?” she asks when she’s calmed down, changing the subject. Sherlock hears them both moving around in the kitchen. “Let me see.”

John makes faint sounds of protest; it sounds to Sherlock as though the tiny proprietor of the inn next door is manhandling John in some way. 

“She needs some touch-ups,” Mrs. Hudson says, and Sherlock finds himself wondering what she’s talking about, precisely. She obviously has seen more of John’s tattoos than Sherlock himself has. He’s only seen the ones on John’s left forearm. John is remarkable in his ability to keep himself covered up and thus frustrated Sherlock’s desire to know _what they are_.

He has his theories.

He’s spent far longer than is likely appropriate or socially acceptable thinking about his flatmate’s tattoos. Well, thinking about his flatmate, full stop.

He doesn’t analyze that, either.

Sherlock isn’t much of one for self-analysis, it’s true.

\----

Mrs. Hudson is a delight.

Any time either he or John ask her to do something, she counters with “I’m an innkeeper, not your housekeeper, dear.” 

But she usually does it anyway. She randomly shows up in their flat with food. She seems to believe that neither of them can cook, and that they’ll starve without her intervention. Sherlock is fully capable of cooking, he’s mostly either too busy for it or not hungry enough to do so. Or else he forgets to eat entirely; that happens quite often. It takes up time that he’d rather be spending on more important matters, like contemplation of brewing or his flatmate. 

Sherlock is pretty sure she cleans, too, though he hasn’t yet caught her at it. She likes taking care of people, despite her assertions of not being their housekeeper. She obviously loves John very much, treats him as her own.

It’s nice to see. It’s nice to be a part of that, even if only a small part.

He most often comes into contact with Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen of the brewpub. She uses it as well, to make food for her guests. 

“Oh, hello dear,” she says, when he wanders in. 

Sherlock merely grunts in response. He’s deep in thought regarding new brews for the pub and doesn’t have time for social niceties. He’s formulating recipes for the seasonal beers that he’d like to experiment with.

“Where’s your John?” she asks. She always refers to John as ‘his’. Sherlock hasn’t yet seen fit to correct her, and is pretty certain he never shall. She seems to be putting together small, silly sandwiches. Must have one of those touristy guests who wants the “traditional” English tea. The one with all the cliches and none of the things people actually eat. Sherlock steals one off the plate, and she bats at his hand.

Cucumber, ugh.

He shrugs in answer to her question. He’s not John’s keeper, he doesn’t know where the man is. Most likely he’s behind the bar. He’s usually behind the bar. Sherlock usually knows where John is, actually. He just doesn’t admit to it. He gets the feeling that John usually knows where he is, as well. 

Sherlock has been in the back room all morning, going through all the equipment, checking on the casks already filled with beer, learning all the supplies--what they are and where they go--and rearranging things to his liking. The smell of hops was starting to make him light-headed--or possibly it’s been too long since he ate--so he had roused himself to take a break.

“Has he mentioned my proposal at all?” Mrs. Hudson asks, all false-innocent curiosity.

“Proposal? No, he’s not said anything to me.” Considering how much time he and John spend together, between living together and working together, it’s rather shocking that they don’t talk a whole lot. 

Sherlock finds it strangely comfortable, strangely comforting. They often spend their evenings sat together in the lounge upstairs, each doing their own thing, comfortably together in the same room, without speaking. 

Sherlock has never had a friend like John.

“What proposal?” he asks. He doesn’t have to feign ignorance.

“Oh, it’s nothing much,” she replies. “Only he’s got this huge kitchen here and I am practically the only one who uses it. I’d love to be able to offer my guests more food options--I’ve got that hip, you know, I can’t do as much as I’d like--and I know he wants to be able to do more for the folks who come into the pub. So I’m hoping, once you two get this place back on its feet properly, that we can start looking for a good chef. Someone who can work for both of us.”

Sherlock blinks at her. It’s a brilliant idea, actually. It would bring the guests from the inn into the pub. It would increase their clientele to be able to offer meals to people. It would broaden their base.

He doesn’t hear another word that Mrs. Hudson says, his mind has gone floating off into the possibilities a decent chef in the kitchen would create.

\----

John eventually answers his repeated bellows of his name by stomping into the back room and yelling “WHAT?”

Sherlock smiles at him from amidst the strewn equipment he’s been going through. He’d known as soon as he uncovered the first dusty bit of it that it wasn’t John’s doing that brought it all into the pub, and that John probably wants nothing to do with it. He probably hasn’t even figured out if and how to sell it, or else it would be long gone.

“Where did you get all these wonderful things?”

Sherlock cannot wait to get them all working. It will help streamline the production of the different beers, and it’ll make it easier for them to sell growlers and bottles to the locals, to help spread the brand a bit into the community. It’ll help their bottom line, if it’s all been paid for already.

John sighs, puts his hands on his hips. “Harry bought it all. She said a bunch of rubbish about mod cons.”

“Why don’t you use any of it?”

John scowls at him. It’s a friendly, affectionate scowl though. Somehow. Sherlock doesn’t quite know how he knows that, but it is. John not only puts up with him and his abrasiveness and his quirks, John seems to genuinely enjoy them.

It’s only been a few weeks since he’d moved in; he still wonders if that will last, even as he enjoys every minute of it. No matter what happens, if he has to go back to France and grovel at his brother’s feet, if he has to search out other means of supporting himself, this will all be worth it.

“I thought we could get back to the traditional ways of doing things,” John says, defensive.

Sherlock just looks at him. For long moments, they stare at each other, before John relents.

He grumbles, barely audible, looking away, arms crossed.

“I’m sorry, did you just say you had a row with a hydraulic bottler?”

“Oh, shut up!”

Sherlock’s laughter follows John back out to the bar.


	7. Beer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a day late, folks. Also, it hasn't been beta'd, so if you find any mistakes, please (gently) let me know. 
> 
> And this catches me up to what I already have written, so bear with me if I fall off the once a week schedule. I've been doing well with it, but it's also getting to the end of the semester and I have a lot of art homework to do over the next few weeks.

The Bee & Bonnet has been the Watson family business going back four generations, to John’s great-grandfather (although it’s said that it was his great-grandmother who really got the ball rolling on it, as well as giving the brewpub its name). The family stories claim that Amandus Watson was the youngest son of seven (genealogically proven, actually) and left the family home in Scotland for different, greener pastures, taking the family’s brewing recipes with him, as well as his new wife, Frances.

Eventually they settled together in London, opened the brewpub together, and started a family. No one is sure what order those events happened in, though. What they are sure of is that Frances Watson was a firecracker, and that the pub was started in no small part thanks to her, and that she ran her family with good humor and an apparent iron fist. Including her husband.

They had six children, all boys. The pub would eventually be passed on to the oldest, John’s grandfather Joseph, who in turn had four children, all girls but the youngest, to whom the pub eventually went (John’s grandfather has admitted he’d have delighted in passing it on to his oldest daughter, but she wanted nothing to do with the place, causing a mild neighborhood scandal when she ran off to Paris to be an artist [and marry one]). Instead, the pub went to John’s father, also called John, who married a firecracker of his own; John’s mum, Marie. They had two children, twins, John and Harriet.

The Bee & Bonnet has survived two wars at this point, as well as the 80s. 

John is determined not to let his legacy die, at least not with him.

The building that the pub is in is owned outright by John and Harry. So at least if he has to shut the doors of the pub, he’ll still have a place to live. There’s relief in that, though he desperately doesn’t want it to happen. He doesn’t want to have to let any of his people go, he doesn’t want to stop brewing beer, he doesn’t want to close this little piece of the neighborhood.

In his great-grandfather’s time, the building next door was also owned by the family. However, just after the end of the Second World War they sold it to a young couple looking to open a boarding house. Their daughter would eventually inherit the building and become Mrs Amelia Hudson. She converted it from a boarding house into the quaint boutique hotel that it is today; homey but very posh and rather expensive and exclusive. 

John had learned long ago not to look askance at the celebrities who came and went from Mrs Hudson’s hotel; it was better all around if he pretended not to notice.

\----

John still brews all the beer that the pub serves, from recipes developed by his great-grandfather, grandfather, and father. He’s proud of that fact, and the pub has always been known for that, for hearty, good beer brewed on premises.

There are four types of beer that are pretty much always available. For a long time, John has wanted to expand a bit, offer more variety, perhaps some seasonal selections. With the hiring of Sherlock Holmes as the new brewer for The Bee & Bonnet, he’s hoping that this will finally come to pass. He’s letting go of his hold on the brewing itself to concentrate on keeping the brewpub alive, and he hopes that isn’t a mistake.

He’s not worried about sharing the recipes with Sherlock. Sherlock clearly wouldn’t have any compunctions taking them and going, if he seemed at all interested in theft. But he seems to have been caught up by the newness of brewing beer. He talks about it a lot; he seems to be always talking to John, even when John isn’t there. He will walk in on conversations that have been going on for ages, of which he has no knowledge, and Sherlock will wave off his questions about them, saying merely, “Well, you’ll have to wait and find out then, won’t you?”

Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind that John rarely knows what he’s talking about, that John misses three quarters of their supposed conversations. It doesn’t phase him at all. He smiles at John when John makes comments about it, and John has yet to be able to resist smiling back; they end up grinning at each other like fools rather often, these days.

John doesn’t know what Sherlock is talking about when he starts talking about the chemistry behind brewing either. But then, chemistry was never his strong suit. Biology, sure. The required amounts of chemistry he’d needed for his medical degree, but the things that Sherlock talks about are beyond him. He does the brewing the same way his dad and his granddad and his great-granddad did--by feel, according to recipes and the instincts he’s learned from spending his whole life around hops and malt and barley and yeast.

Sherlock has a notebook full of... well, John isn’t sure what it’s full of, to be honest, as he’s never seen it except in Sherlock’s hand, generally being scribbled in by the man himself. He’s hoping that it’s full of ideas, full of secrets. He knows that Sherlock’s background is in wine, and he’s hoping that the fresh set of eyes will mean new and interesting things for the pub.

He’s hoping that the insanity of the man doesn’t mean that ‘new and interesting’ will include ‘awful and bad-tasting’.

John will find out sooner rather than later, as Sherlock’s first few casks are coming ready to be tapped.

\----

John is used to finding Sherlock sat in odd places around the flat, doing odd things. Sometimes, those things involve fire, and John shouts at him. Sometimes, those things involve chemicals and reactions and John hurries to open all the windows and call downstairs and over to Mrs Hudson to let them know to do the same, so the smell doesn’t hang about too long.

This, however, is a new one.

Sherlock hasn’t been downstairs all day, and when his shift is over, John heads upstairs, weary from a pleasantly busy day (they’ve started to happen more often. They’re starting to give John hope. Hope is a dangerous thing, though, growing like a weed in the soul, and he really fears that he’ll have to rip it out), and hungry.

He forgets his hunger upon entering the flat, though.

Sherlock is sat on the floor in the middle of the lounge. He is surrounded by what looks like straw.

Upon closer inspection, it _is_ straw.

“What--?” John starts to ask. Then he thinks better of it, shakes his head, and skirts around the mess of grass and straw surrounding Sherlock like he’s the epicenter of some sort of bomb, heading for the kitchen.

“Have you eaten today?” John calls.

Sherlock grunts in reply, concentrated entirely on the basket he’s apparently weaving.

John has no idea why Sherlock has taken up basket weaving. He’s not sure he wants to know. So instead he putters around the kitchen, putting together some spag bol for dinner, enough for both him and his can’t-be-arsed flatmate.

It’s not until he’s sat watching Sherlock and eating his meal--he can’t see the telly because Sherlock is in the way--that Sherlock finally rejoins the present. He makes a sound of delight and upturns the basket he’s just finished on the floor.

“Oh, it looks like--” John starts, around a mouthful of spaghetti.

“Bee skep!” Sherlock crows.

“Yes, that. Um, why?”

Sherlock gapes at him. “Because--? Bees, John! Bees.”

“Huh?”

Sherlock launches into a speech about bees, how wondrous and creative they are, how fascinating. He goes on for ten minutes while John looks on, more entranced by how happy Sherlock is talking about bees than he is by the actual speech. He could honestly watch Sherlock in his element for ages, simply basking in the glow of the man’s wonderful brain.

Eventually part of it gets through, though.

“You want to keep bees? Here?!”

Sherlock nods enthusiastically. “But not in skeps, too primitive, too much work to get the honey without destroying either the bees or the skeps. I’ll get regular hives.”

“Um.”

“I’ll talk to Mrs Hudson about it,” he continues, “since she shares the garden with us. She’ll need to be aware.”

“Um.”

“I’ll not start with the mead until I can use my own honey, of course.”

John blinks, and the connections start to fall into place. “Is that why there are twelve different jars of honey in the cupboard?”

It’s not the strangest thing he’s found in the cupboards since Sherlock moved in.

Sherlock grins at him, infectious, his eyes alight and mischievous. John wishes that they were mischievous for a different reason. “Well, I need to know which types of honey will make the best mead, of course.”

John lives with a madman. An absolute madman. But he’s really starting to think that this madman is going to save his life and his livelihood.


	8. The Next Year Or So

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next year or so of life at The Bee & Bonnet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is just a bit shorter than the others. Sorry about that.

John barely notices, but time passes quickly after Sherlock settles in. He takes to the brewing better than John could have ever hoped, he takes to it like he was born into it.. 

When he looks back, John isn’t sure why he’d been afraid Sherlock would fail. He feels like he may have been afraid of everything, afraid of his own failure, afraid to trust anyone else. But Sherlock doesn’t seem to fail at anything (except perhaps the occasional experiment, and even those he refers to as “a learning experience”. John usually refers to them as “explosions”). 

From what little Sherlock has said about growing up on a vineyard, he has to have at least as much specialized knowledge as John does. He doesn’t talk about his childhood much, and John doesn’t pry, though he imagines that Sherlock knows his entire history, from the way he looks at John, from the way he deduces, from the way he seems to hear things through walls.

The conversation went something like this: “So, Vernet, huh?” “Yes, John. I grew up on a vineyard.” “What was that like?” “There were a lot of grapes.” “Oh.” “And Mycroft is a git.” “Okay then. I grew up here.” “It’s a wonder you’re not an alcoholic like your sister, actually.” “Fuck off, Sherlock.”

They dance around each other, comfortable, friendly, but there’s something more there. It’s something neither of them seems willing to broach, willing to make real, willing to even acknowledge. John sees it sometimes, in Sherlock’s eyes, in a lingering touch, in the way he says John’s name, breathless and amazed, and often laughing. He wonders if Sherlock sees it in his eyes, in the way he’ll sometimes let his fingertips linger on Sherlock’s back when handing him a cup of tea, in the way he tells Sherlock how amazing he is just about daily.

John has noticed, though, that they’ve become for all intents and purposes attached at the hip. He’s not blind. Really, there’s no way he could miss it, as literally everyone he sees on a regular basis has seen fit to comment on that fact, in those incredibly rare moments that he and Sherlock aren’t together.

\----

Within about six months of Sherlock and John becoming partners, everyone has noticed the changes. Mostly people comment on the changes around the pub: everyone seems busier, happier, less downtrodden and scared.

But people comment on the changes in John as well. Sarah and Sally can often be found watching him from behind the bar, when he’s cleaning or helping patrons, or when he’s stood in the door to the backroom where Sherlock works, chatting with his brewer.

They’ve quietly joined Mrs Hudson in referring to the pair of them as “your Sherlock” or “your John.” John has a tendency to sigh and shake his head when they do that. He tries to object, but no one ever listens to him.

And he doesn’t object all that strenuously, to be honest.

Sherlock mostly doesn’t acknowledge it at all, but he’s never objected.

You’d think John would notice something like that, wouldn’t you? For certain, Sally and Sarah both have.

They’ve had extensive discussions about it with Mrs. Hudson as well. It’s become one of their favorite past times, discussing if and how and when John and Sherlock will end up together.

Sally thinks it has already happened. Sarah isn’t so sure. Mrs. Hudson proclaims that she doesn’t see or hear a word, not a single word. But she also grins from ear to ear whenever anyone brings either John or Sherlock up in conversation. And she refers to them as ‘her boys’.

Then she protests yet again that she’s not their housekeeper and she doesn’t pry into their lives.

\----

So the year wends on. Sherlock has settled in, and he and John are attached at the hip. His first batch of beers turns out perfectly; John cannot taste the difference between the things Sherlock has brewed and the beers he brewed himself. He’s delighted, and the customers are as well.

Things pick up. At first it’s gradual, the evenings are just a little bit busier, the weekends are a little be louder. John barely notices that he doesn’t have as much time to chat with Sally or Sarah behind the bar, that he doesn’t have as much time to clear tables or consult with Sherlock about whatever it is he’s working on (although often this amounts to John saying “What are you up to, Sherlock?” and Sherlock ignoring him entirely or talking about something that has nothing at all to do with beer).

Sherlock’s seasonal beers bring in more new people, a younger crowd. There’s one for each season. He refuses to talk to anyone, including John, about any aspect of them from the concept to the ingredients before the unveiling. The only exception is Mrs Hudson, who designs the art for the labels. They work together closely on the designs, because of course Sherlock has very specific ideas about what he’s trying to convey with each seasonal brew. 

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson and Sally come up with the idea of having launch parties for each of the new beers, featuring the original concept art on the walls of the pub and samples of the new beer, as well as catering brought in for the occasion. Mrs Hudson sells prints of her art at the events, and after the first one, each brings in a bigger and bigger crowd, both locals and people from further afield, beer aficionados and art lovers alike.

After the second beer’s release Mrs Hudson starts to campaign even harder to get a permanent chef in the kitchen, and John starts to think it might actually be feasible.


	9. Molly Hooper, Baker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly Hooper is the baker whose shop is down the street from the pub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is totally unbetaed. I'm sorry (I'm not sorry).
> 
> Also, I just got a job, and I graduate in a couple weeks. And I haven't really figured out what the next chapter or three entail. So it might take me a couple weeks to get the next chapter up. After things even out again though I should be back to the schedule. Although there's only... maybe five chapters left? Give or take a few? Something like that.
> 
> Ambiguous Author is ambiguous.

There’s a small bakery just a short walk down the street and around the corner from the Bee & Bonnet. It’s a fairly new addition to the neighborhood, though so far it has been wildly popular. In the eight or so months that it’s been open, there have only been a few scattered days where all the cupcakes didn’t sell out. There have been a few where they were all gone by hours before closing.

It’s called Molly’s Bake Shop, and it’s a very small enterprise, overall. Mostly there’s only room for the kitchen in the back and a small counter, behind which can usually be found one Molly Hooper, the proprietress, namesake, owner and operator of the shop. She starts each day long before the sun rises, baking for hours in her tiny kitchen, alone but for the music she plays, continuing until just a bit after opening, when she takes her place behind the counter, disheveled and usually dusted in flour and looking like the happy baker she is. 

She’s a delightful woman, and her cupcakes are utterly amazing. She does the normal things such as red velvet and chocolate with cream cheese icing and vanilla and lemon and cinnamon, but she also does some odder creations, like the one she calls “zombie cakes”. She won’t tell anyone what’s in them, but they’re remarkably popular; they bleed cherry filling when you bite into them and have green icing. 

John tries to stop in once a week (or more--they’re really good cupcakes). He believes in supporting local businesses (also: REALLY GOOD CUPCAKES).

He’s discovered that one of the easiest--ok, only--ways to get Sherlock to eat anything is to involve sugar in the mix. ‘Dessert first’ has become a phrase he and Mrs. Hudson utter back and forth in conspiratorial tones quite often. All he has to do is wave a cupcake in front of the man’s eyes and the response is nearly pavlovian. Some days it’s the only thing he can do to get Sherlock away from the casks. 

And it’s never a hardship to walk down the road, have a bit of a visit with Molly, and buy a few cupcakes. She’s really a lot of fun; she has this slyly morbid sense of humor that John gets a huge kick out of. She tends towards quietness, so it’s really unexpected when she starts talking about death and corpses, or when she lets loose with snarky observances about the people in the neighborhood. She notices a lot, does Molly Hooper. 

John learns that she was a pathology student in a previous life, before she discovered her love of baking--actually, that was how she discovered her love of baking, doing it during end of term stress. Eventually, she spent more time baking treats for her friends and developing recipes than she did studying for her courses, so she decided to try her hand at doing it permanently.

Molly returns the favor by stopping in to the pub occasionally, having a couple of beers, usually on the days when she’s sold out of her cupcakes hours before she expected to. She is as firm a believer in supporting local businesses as John is, and she loves the village pub vibe that she gets when she walks into The Bee & Bonnet and is greeted by name. She absolutely adores Mrs. Hudson; they get along like a house on fire from the word ‘hello’, and can often be found in each other’s company. Molly share’s Mrs, Hudson’s love of art and of crafting; they’re both avid knitters. John expects they’ll all be receiving knitted hats and scarves and possibly jumpers for Christmas. 

At first, she’s a little bit dazzled by Sherlock, but he completely ignores her, not even bothering to remember her name until he learns that she is the source of the cupcakes John keeps shoving in his face. When she comes in with cupcakes he smiles and acts polite until he’s got his hands on the sweets, and then completely ignores her, usually disappearing into the back room with the whole box; some days John doesn’t get any for himself. 

She gets over her crush on him pretty quickly. Thankfully, Molly’s a smart girl and she doesn’t appreciate being ignored and condescended to. It probably doesn’t hurt that Sally takes Molly under her wing, and is sure to disabuse her of any romantic notions regarding Sherlock with numerous horror stories and examples of his unfounded rudeness. Sally’s still a little irked with him after he deduced her boyfriend’s infidelities that single time he stopped by. Although she’s also a little bit glad to be shot of that wanker.

The girls collectively draw Molly into their intrigues regarding John and Sherlock as well; this probably also helps her get over the crush. (Mrs. Hudson’s rational, “who among us hasn’t had a crush on a gay man before, hmmm?” helps her with the embarrassment.) 

Once she’s over that, she’s much more comfortable in his presence, and John starts to see some of her morbid sense of humor, some of that spark she’s got, when she’s in the pub. Even Sherlock notices her sense of humor, and grudgingly doesn’t disappear as fast when she shows up.

\----

After the first beer launch party, she works out a deal with Mrs. Hudson to provide cupcakes inspired by the new beers for each party. (The Victoria Regina cupcakes go over especially well, and she starts wondering if she can make them a more permanent addition to her menu.) Neither of them tell John about their devious plan; the cupcakes merely appear for the launch of Augustus. Sherlock only agrees to let her in on the formulae for the new beers after Mrs. Hudson has a long talk with him; she’d previously been sworn to utter secrecy, and it takes her two weeks to convince him that allowing Molly to know ahead of time and create cupcakes is a good thing.

When John sees what they’ve done, he has to excuse himself to the back for a minute to escape the crowd and catch his breath, and honestly to calm down so he doesn’t get all choked up in front of everyone he knows and most of the neighborhood too.

\----

“John?”

John takes a deep breath and turns around to smile at Sherlock. He’s crossing the darkened back room to look closely at John.

“People will miss you soon, John,” Sherlock points out. He stands too close, and John can feel the warmth coming off of him.

“You can’t hide back here.”

“I’m not hiding, Sherlock.” John takes another deep breath and reaches out, his hand connecting with Sherlock’s waist. “I just--”

“It was Molly and Mrs. Hudson. They planned it. I had to be convinced.”

John smiles up at him. “I figured.”

“It’s good then?”

John nods. For a moment, they simply look at each other, smiling.

“John?”

They both turn at the second voice, the moment broken. John’s smile changes as he turns to Molly, who is stood in the doorway.

“Everything all right?” she asks. 

“Yeah, just coming.” John crosses the room, looking back one last time to smile at Sherlock at the door.

Sherlock watches him go, while the warmth of John’s hand at his waist lingers.


	10. Harriet Renee Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Clara come back from wherever they've faffed off to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me a few weeks to get back to posting, y'all. It's been kinda nuts, with graduating and work and now I'm a bit sick, too.
> 
> I already have the next chapter written, so if I can manage to get it out of my notebook and onto the computer, I'll try to post it tomorrow. If not, Thursday. And then I just need to finish up the epilogue and get it typed as well, and we'll wrap things up, hopefully this weekend. XD

Harry and Clara come back from wherever it is they’d faffed off to after about a year. Harry looks healthier than John has seen her in years. There’s color in her cheeks, legitimate color, not the dull redness of her constant drunkenness. She smiles (mostly at Clara). She’s the snarky twat of a sister that John remembers from his childhood, not the wreck of a woman who’d driven his bar straight into the ground.

John is glad to see it all, even when he wants to throttle her within about five minutes of her return.

Clara glows, quietly. Finally managed to sort things out with her family, John thinks. Things are good between her and Harry. (He’s picked up a few things from Sherlock and his powers observation.) Clara’s parents had never approved of Harry, of their posh daughter having a working-class wife.

They don’t tell him where they’ve been, and John doesn’t ask, but wherever it was, they were getting Harry sober, and it seems like it’s going to stick this time. John hopes it sticks this time. He prays for it, and he’s never been one for prayer, beyond begging God to spare his life when he’d been shot.

Harry pretty much hates Sherlock on sight. 

The feeling is more than mutual.

When they’re in the same room together--which thankfully isn’t that often, as Sherlock has a tendency to simply leave when Harry and Clara walk into the pub--it sets John on edge. It makes his teeth ache (possibly because he ends up grinding them harder and harder as the tension mounts). John starts to want to hit things or people, and there’s not much that rouses that desire in him. Harry can’t seem to stop herself picking at Sherlock, calling him a freak the way Sally does, insulting his beers (which she hasn’t even tried), bringing up the accident that had sent him down from the vineyard in France.

John hates that she does it, but on those rare occasions that Sherlock engages instead of leaving, John has to flee. He knows that Sherlock feels deeply about that accident; he thinks he was sabotaged. And Harry picks up quickly that it’s one of the few ways to make him defensive, to make him lash out, and she takes advantage of that and pushes those buttons hard every chance she gets.

Harry always has taken her frustrations out on those around her; no one except Clara seems to be safe. Sherlock appears to be her new favorite target.

\----

“They’ve left, John; you can come out now,” Sherlock says softly.

John looks up from where he’s crouched next to the empty casks, back against the cold stone wall, hands clenched in his hair.

Sherlock looks down at him, abashed. “I’m sorry, John.”

John blinks. Sherlock rarely apologizes for anything, to anyone. Except for John. John always seems to be the exception.

“I know you don’t like it when we have a go at each other.” Sherlock crouches next to him, pulls John’s hands out of his hair with a gentle touch.

“I don’t. I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Do you tell her that?” Sherlock asks. He seems genuinely curious, not accusatory or angry.

“I have. She told me to fuck off. I figure you’ll do about the same. It just--”

“I know, John. I’ll try. All right?”

John smiles. “Thanks.”

Sherlock rises gracefully to his feet and holds out his hand to John. John takes it and lets himself be hauled upright. Sherlock doesn’t immediately let go, and John stares at their linked hands. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, and he doesn’t want to break the moment, his heart pounding, his breath catching, but--

“I should get back out front.” John looks up.

Sherlock is watching him with fire in his eyes.

“Yes.”

“How does Thai sound for dinner tonight?” Anything, anything at all to postpone the moment when he’ll have to let go of Sherlock’s hand.

“Fine, John.” His voice is barely more than a breath.

They stare at each other for an eternity. Until Sarah waltzes into the back room with a cheery, “Hi John, hi Sherlock.”

They let go, step back. John blinks. Sherlock looks at him for a moment more before turning and walking away without another word. John watches him go ( _hate to see you go, love to watch you leave,_ he thinks) before turning towards Sarah, who is looking on with a smirk. 

The entire staff will know within moments, John’s sure of it.

“You just missed Harry and Clara,” he says as he crosses the room. “But it’s been a pretty quiet afternoon.”

“Except the fireworks between himself and Harry, I assume?”

“You’ve no idea,” John says as they cross back into the bar proper.

\----

“I thought I was the one who does stupid shit for sex, Johnny.”

“Fuck off, Harry, we’re just mates.”

Harry snorts. “The fuck you’re ‘just mates’. I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. Is that why you gave him ten percent of our legacy? To get in his pants?”

John stares for a moment, silent, mouth agape. “Fuck you.” He gets up and walks into the kitchen.

For once, Harry gives him the five minutes he needs to calm down before following him, instead of barging in after him and starting an epic row. She doesn’t need to do that as much anymore, not since she’s been taking her frustrations out on Sherlock every chance she gets.

“Look, Johnny,” she starts.

“No, Harry. You don’t get to make decisions about this place anymore. You gave that up when you nearly ran it into the ground. You don’t know what he’s like, Harry. He’s _good_ , his beer is _amazing_. So you need to back off with him and let me run _our_ pub the way I see fit and stop giving him so much shit because we’re _finally_ doing well again and as far as I can see, that’s mostly down to Sherlock Holmes and his beer.” John stops and takes a deep breath.

Harry stares at him for a moment, wide-eyed and surprised. “The fuck you’re just mates,” she says again, voice just a little bit awed.

John sighs. “Go away, Harry. I don’t want to deal with you anymore tonight.”

“Wait a minute, Johnny. This isn’t even why I’m here tonight.”

“Oh, you’re not here to slag off my flatmate, now that I kicked him out of his home for the evening so you two don’t rip each other’s throats out?”

\----

John is sat on the couch when Sherlock comes up about an hour later, carefully balancing two pints in one hand. He makes it look easy, especially for someone who’s never tended bar or waited tables before. 

He makes everything look easy, really. Easy and elegant, and sometimes John wishes he could hate the man for that easy grace, but he suspects it was hard-won, and he rather enjoys watching him employ it anyway. So he doesn’t. He doesn’t offer to help with the beer, either.

“Figured you’d need one,” he says as he crosses the room, handing John a pint and sitting carefully next to him, sipping his own.

“Clara wants to get pregnant.” John sounds--and looks, and feels--gobsmacked.

“Yes, I know.”

“They want me to--help.”

“Mmm,” is Sherlock’s only response. “Mazel tov.”

John laughs, shaky. “Cheers.”

They clink their pints together and drink.


	11. John's Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's John's birthday, and there's a surprise for him from Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lookit, another chapter! Huzzah!
> 
> I am going to try to get the next chapter typed up tomorrow after my stupidly short shift at work. If it doesn't get posted, it's because I got sicker and couldn't manage it. I'm also going to try to finish the epilogue so I can post that Friday or this weekend. 
> 
> Cross your fingers, because I'm still feeling poorly and I tend not to write much when I don't feel well.

There is an innocuous but beautiful wooden cask in the back of the brewing room. John has never seen it before. They still have a few of the old casks that his grandfather had used for brewing, but they’re only used occasionally, to brew anniversary beers. At least, they were before Sherlock started doing the brewing. He keeps them in constant rotation, and has extensive notes on what they do to the taste of the different beers.

This one, though. It’s clearly new, some sort of wood that’s different from the older ones (John can’t tell different woods from their grain, he’s no genius. He imagines Sherlock can, and can also tell him what different woods mean for taste and length of brewing and any other number of minuscule details John would never think to consider), and it’s clearly expensive. John has no idea where it came from or what’s in it.

He wonders about it all day.

\----

John finally gets a chance to ask about it that night, after the pub has closed and he’s finally trudged upstairs, their now customary pints in hand.

Sherlock is spread out on the sofa, his laptop balanced against his legs, typing up something. John suspects he’s keeping notes on the beers, writing down his process and his experiments, possibly for posterity. Or his memoirs, John’s not sure.

“Budge up,” John says, as he puts Sherlock’s pint down on the coffee table. Sherlock obliges him by lifting his feet. Once John is seated, he stretches out again, his feet in John’s lap.

John’s hand ends up wrapped around one bony ankle.

Neither of them comment on it.

“Did you order a cask of ale?” John asks instead.

“No,” Sherlock replies, intent on his laptop. He shuts it after a moment and puts it on the floor next to the sofa. Somehow, he manages to tip half of his pint of beer down his throat in a supine position without spilling a single drop.

John watches in fascination that he refuses to label “aroused”.

“I only bought the supplies,” Sherlock adds.

“Supplies for what, precisely?” John may have forgot his question while staring at Sherlock’s throat.

“For the cask of ale, John. Keep up. Also, you’ve ruined the surprise.” Sherlock pouts. He has an epic pout.

“Surprise?”

“Yes, John,” and now he’s laughing at John, it’s in his voice, and John loves it. “The surprise.”

“What surprise?”

An exasperated sigh. “Your birthday present.”

“You made me beer for my birthday?”

“Yes, and it won’t be ready until then, so don’t get any ideas or I’ll destroy it.”

“What did you brew me for my birthday, Sherlock?”

“I’m not telling you, John.”

\----

They have a smallish party for John’s birthday, at the insistence of pretty much everyone but John. Mrs. Hudson does all of the decorations (at least partly by hand) and most of the cooking, and Molly bakes a big batch of John’s favorite of her cupcakes for everyone to enjoy.

John hates having a fuss made over himself, but everyone seems determined to celebrate him, so he lets them. Harry and Sherlock even stay mostly on opposite sides of the room, and don’t exchange much more than two frosty words all night.

It ends up being a good night, and he completely forgets about the cask of ale Sherlock made for him until Sherlock follows him up the seventeen stairs to their flat at the end of the night holding two empty pint glasses.

“I tried it this afternoon,” Sherlock admits as he pours them each a pint. “To make sure it’s ready. So you should go first.” He hands John a glass of beautiful, deep amber-colored liquid, before pouring his own.

“Happy birthday, John,” he says, voice quiet, clinking their glasses together, a soft smile on his face, one that John has only ever seen directed at himself.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John replies, then takes a sip.

He savors the beer and swallows before he lets his jaw drop. For a moment, he stares at Sherlock, before deciding he must be wrong and taking another sip. He repeats this process three more times while Sherlock returns his gaze steadily, smiling and sipping his own beer.

“Sherlock,” John finally manages to croak. “This--” he stops to take another sip. “You brewed this?”

“Yes, John.”

“But--” he sips again. “This tastes like--no, this tastes _better than_ \--my favorite Trappist ale.”

Sherlock’s smile widens. “Well.”

“Sherlock, this tastes like a Trappist ale. Only better.”

“Thank you.”

“But that’s impossible.” John takes three large gulps. It’s amazing. Possibly the best beer he’s ever tasted. A thing of sheer beauty. 

And Sherlock made it for him.

“Not impossible, John. Just improbable,” Sherlock’s eyes are pleased, full of joy, happy that he’s made this surprise for John and that it has made John so excited.

John finishes the pint and holds out his glass for more. “Sherlock, did you steal the recipe for a Trappist ale from a bunch of Belgian monks?”  
“Well...” Sherlock draws the word out, answering without actually answering. 

“Oh my god, you did.”

“Not really, John. I deduced most of it from the tasting at the end of the tour. The rest was obvious from a glance at their storage room and their gardens.” He hands John his refilled glass with another smile and a not at all modest shrug.

“Oh my god,” John says again. But he gulps down more beer.

Sherlock watches his flatmate’s eyes drift shut in bliss as they both drink. He finishes his own pint and starts on another while John savors his second.

“Besides,” Sherlock adds. “It’s not stealing if they still have the recipe. It’s merely a redistribution of wealth, of knowledge.”

John giggles at that. “You’re the Robin Hood of beer.”

Sherlock snorts, and they both laugh.

When John has calmed down again, he says, “You know, we can never tell anyone you did this. You’d be drawn and quartered. By monks.”

Sherlock leans in close. “Good thing I have no intention of sharing then, hmm?”

They proceed to get spectacularly drunk together.

Happy Birthday, John.

\----

John wakes up sometime around dawn, a crick in his neck and a weight on his chest. The weight turns out to be Sherlock, wrapped around him and dribbling on his chest.

“Ugh, Sh’lock, g’up,” he slurs.

Still drunk then. Righty-ho.

Actually, probably a good thing, as he finds himself stroking his friend’s hair, staring at his sleep-smoothed face.

Also, he’s not hungover. Yet.

“Sherlock.” It takes a lot of concentration to make it come out correctly.

“Mmf, what? Comfy.”

John has never heard that word come out of this man’s mouth. For a moment, he just stares, uncomprehending.

“Comfier in bed,” he observes.

Sherlock cracks one eye open. “Only if you stay.”

John’s heart skips several beats, but mercifully does not elect to stop entirely.

“OK.”

Sherlock slowly lifts his head. “Okay?”

John nods. “OK.”

\----

“You have beer breath.”

“So do you.”

“John Watson, are you going to take your birthday wish or--mmf!”


	12. Greg Lestrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's actually very little about Greg in this chapter. But he's there, I promise! (Mostly it's the stuff that required I change the rating.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one where the rating changes, folks. And also, the final real chapter. All that's left if the epilogue, which I'm going to work one once I finish getting this posted.
> 
> I hope you've all enjoyed this as much as I have!

“John, you’re being incredibly distracting,” Sherlock murmurs into his flatmate and partner and now perhaps boyfriend’s mouth.

“Mmm,” John replies, before drawing him deeper into the room. “I could stop, if you want.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer that awful suggestion.

They’re in the back room of the pub. Sherlock’s domain, his sanctuary, his laboratory, and John is rendering him into his component molecules with this searing kiss, with the burning tips of his fingers.

It’s becoming a pattern, this. John pulling him into corners, into the odd little nooks in the pub, onto the couch in the flat and snogging him absolutely senseless. Sherlock has thought about protesting, but he doesn’t. He can’t, he won’t. He doesn’t want to; the suspense of it, the waiting, the wanting is all delicious. He savors the constant hum of tension in his veins, that thrilling feeling in the pit of his stomach, never knowing when he’s going to be grabbed from behind and dragged into the nearest corner and snogged until he’s struggling for breath.

John’s hands wander all over Sherlock’s body, take possession of him. Sherlock has given over utterly to John’s hand, the things they do to him. Those hands now tug at his shirt, pulling its tail from his trousers and clutching at the bare skin at the small of his back, and Sherlock has a vivid memory of coming out of the shower two days before, only to be set upon by John, predatory and breathtaking.

John had pulled Sherlock into his room, peeled his dressing gown off him, and pinned him to the bed, kissing every inch of his skin and giving him a mind-blowing--pun not intended--blow job.

He hadn’t even been given a chance to reciprocate. By the time he’d been able to gather his thoughts back into his head and figure out how to lift it from the bed, John was panting against his stomach as he brought himself to completion. Sherlock could only stroke his fingers through John’s hair and whisper encouragement as John moaned his name and came.

John had been fully clothed at the time. Afterward, he’d rolled over and stretched out next to Sherlock, completely naked next to completely clothed, and laughed. Sherlock had to kiss him then, to taste his laugh, and they curled together on the bed for a while, kissing and then talking quietly before Sherlock eventually remembered he was totally naked, and John remembered that he needed to change.

“Hey,” John murmurs now, against his jaw, “come back here.”

Sherlock settles his arms around John’s back and holds tight. “I was just remembering the other day. I think I owe you one.”

John chuckles. “Not in the back room of my pub you don’t. I don’t run that kind of establishment.” His voice is mock-outraged, scandalized, his lips against Sherlock’s neck.

“No, of course not,” Sherlock replies, and turns his head to reclaim John’s mouth.

It’s been a whirlwind of a month since John’s birthday, when things had finally changed between them. They’ve spent most of their time together (which is pretty much all of their time) snogging like teenagers, unable to get enough of one another. Otherwise, however, they’ve moved rather slowly.

The encounter the other day was only the second of its kind; the first being about a week earlier, when they’d ended up on the sofa, frotting against one another until they’d both come in their pants. 

Like teenagers.

At least it’s a pattern.

Sherlock knows that John is waiting on him. Waiting for Sherlock to ask, to say the words. John is letting him make that decision, set the pace.

And Sherlock is waiting. Not much longer, he doesn’t think. He doesn’t think he can hold out much longer, the anticipation is killing him. But for now, he’s savoring it, savoring the tension, the way John looks at him, the warmth of that desire, of that regard.

Soon. Soon he’ll ask.

For now, though, he strokes his hands up John’s back, cradling his head and angling just so, to deepen the kiss further, drawing moans from both of them.

“Hoo hoo,” Mrs Hudson calls, from the vicinity of the doorway. “You two decent back here?”

Sherlock groans, dropping his head to John’s shoulder.

“We’re decent, Mrs H,” John calls. He pats Sherlock’s bum and lets go, stepping around him carefully.

Sherlock turns and leans against the wall, adjusting himself in his trousers; it does nothing to make him more comfortable. A few stolen moments of snogging and he’s half-hard, like a teenager.

Yes, things will definitely be changing soon.

“The chef I told you about is here, John-dear,” Mrs Hudson continues. “Come along and meet him.

“Be right there,” John replies.

Mrs Hudson nods and disappears again.

John turns back to Sherlock and smiles. “Come on and meet the guy, yeah?”

Sherlock shrugs.

“You have a say too. It’s partly your pub.”

“I trust you, John.”

John smiles at him, a delighted smile. “I want to know what you think of this guy, though.”

Sherlock nods. He straightens up and starts to tuck his shirt back into his trousers. “Go on then, I’ll be right behind you.”

\----

John crosses the room to where the man with the steel grey hair is chatting with Mrs Hudson. He’s smiling at her, nodding along with whatever she’s saying. He seems to be deferential to her, and not the fake sort of deferential that some people get with her.

Mrs H seems silly sometimes, and has a deep and abiding appreciation for the absurd, but she’s not the flake a lot of people presume she is. Somehow, many _still_ think that she’s a flake, even after they find out that she runs a successful boutique hotel, as well as juggling a side job doing the art for a small beer company and another as an artist.

John thinks he likes this man already. He smiles at them both when he reaches the pair.

“Hi. I’m John.” He holds out his hand to the chef.

The other man takes it and they shake.

“Greg Lestrade. Mrs Hudson’s been telling me about the kitchen here, what you two are looking for in a chef.”

“Oh good, because she explains it all far better than I could. I’m afraid I’m just here to make sure Sherlock doesn’t blow the place up and to pour drinks.”

Mrs Hudson smiles at John and continues her explanation of what she wants: someone to make the pub even better, to make food that will complement the wonderful beers on offer, and who can make that menu at least partially available to her guests as well, encouraging them to try the pub but also to spend more. She also has some ideas about special events at the hotel, though she describes these as very early on and conceptual.

Greg nods along as she talks, occasionally asking a question or make a suggestion. He seems willing to work with Mrs Hudson and capable as well.

Mrs Hudson is excited, animated, nearly giddy with all of the possibilities as well as the fact that this chef seems to understand what she wants, and is willing to give it to her.

John thinks this might work out well after all. He’s just starting to tune them out when Sherlock finally emerges from the brewing room. He stalks across the pub, stopping next to John and giving Greg a blatant once-over.

Everyone stops talking. One of Greg’s eyebrows twitches up, though he doesn’t seem offended, just amused and perhaps curious.

Sherlock turns to John. “Yes. Him.” Then he stalks off again.

Mrs Hudson titters nervously.

John sighs. “That’s Sherlock, my brewer. He’s a genius with fermentation, but he can be a bit... ah...”

“Eccentric,” Mrs Hudson supplies hopefully.

“Bit of a right twat?” Greg finishes with a grin.

John laughs. “Fair enough. Yes. A complete tosser at times, but a great guy, really.”

Greg shrugs. “I’ve worked kitchens most of my life. There’s divas everywhere. Pretty sure I can handle him.”

John knew he liked this guy.

They finish their conversation-slash-interview, and Greg takes his leave with “looking forward”s and “you’ll hear from us” and the like. Mrs Hudson and John have a conversation about him when he’s gone.

“I like him,” Mrs H says.

“Me too.”

“Let’s hire him.”

“Okay.”

And that’s settled. The Bee and Bonnet finally has a proper chef on staff.

\----

Things settle again after that. There are slow days, but they’re further between. Greg gets settled in, and it’s like he’s always been there. He promptly falls arse over tit in love with Molly, and vice versa. Sherlock is brutally rude to him for two weeks and then just... stops.

Things are going well for the Bee and Bonnet and its owner is happier than he’s been in a long, long time.


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end. Or rather, the beginning.

They sit together on the sofa, drinking their evening pints--the last of John’s birthday ale, which he’d insisted on savoring. He’d wanted to make it last. What he doesn’t know is that Sherlock has every intention of starting a new cask in the morning, and plans to make sure it’s almost always around, because it makes John so happy to have it, so happy to have the secret of it, and SHerlock loves to make John happy.

(Well, Sherlock is pretty sure he simply loves John, but he’s not sure he’s ready to say it yet. Not in so many words. He tries to show John as often as possible though. And John hasn’t said it to him yet, either, though he knows John does indeed love him. Has done for a while, since before they’d moved from friends and flatmates to lovers and flatmates.

Well, mostly lovers.

Anyway. Whatever. John loves him, and he sees it in everything John does, and he loves John, and he hopes that John sees that as well.)

They’re pressed together from shoulder to knee, John’s right side to Sherlock’s left, and John’s hand is on Sherlock’s knee. The flat is quiet except for the small sounds of two men breathing and enjoying a shared beer. It is how most of their nights end, and it is immensely pleasant and satisfying. 

This life may not be full of the sort of excitement that Sherlock had dreamed of as a boy, when he’d wanted to be a pirate, and it may not be full of the sort of excitement that John would’ve seen as a soldier and a doctor, but it is full of excitement, and people, and _John_ , and Sherlock is grateful.

He’s grateful, and he wants John to know it. 

When they’ve finished their beers, Sherlock takes John’s glass from him and gets up, taking both into the kitchen. He comes back to see John watching him, so he approaches the sofa and holds out a hand. John takes it and rises, smiling at him, a little curious, a little mischievous.

Sherlock starts walking backwards, towards the bedroom, tugging John along with him. One of John’s brows starts to climb his forehead; Sherlock hasn’t yet been the one to initiate anything more than kissing--and that’s fine, really.

“John,” he says, voice a low rumble.

John’s pupils dilate at the sound. “Hmm?”

“John, I want to see your tattoos.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sad to see this end, but I'm excited to move on to other stuff (or, more likely, head back to the empath!verse). 
> 
> Thank you for reading along, I hope you've enjoyed it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for The Bee & Bonnet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/703217) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




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